


John's Diary

by Manysidesofmyself



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Sherlock is clueless, Suicidal Thoughts, pinning!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-26
Updated: 2017-01-26
Packaged: 2018-09-20 02:02:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,304
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9470501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manysidesofmyself/pseuds/Manysidesofmyself
Summary: Sherlock is alone near the holidays and can't cope. He needs something that reminds him of John.





	

**Author's Note:**

> this is set after Mary is revealed as a villain. Contrary to canon, John does'nt forgive her and continues on with his life. Still not back at Baker Street.

Sherlock woke from a foggy dream. Something about snow. Was it snowing? He wasn’t sure, but it felt cold all over. It was the holiday season, but it hadn’t started snowing yesterday. Might’ve happened overnight, then.

He felt for a blanket, too lazy to open his eyes. No such luck. No John to put one on him whenever he slept somewhere impractical. No John to wake him up and tell him to go sleep in his bed for a change, like a normal person. No John to turn up the heater and make the flat habitable. No John to... well. No John. At all.

He dragged himself out of the sofa and up the stairs. John’s room had always been the warmer of the two - or at least that was what Sherlock told himself - and it was not like John was using it now anyway. No, John had moved out even before Sherlock got back from the dead. _How could he do that?_ It didn’t matter, he was far away from Sherlock now.

Sherlock’s breath caught in his throat. Why was it so hard to breathe whenever he thought about John? Valiant, loyal John. Probably sleeping alone too in this dreadful weather. Sherlock shivered. Not from the cold.

John’s room was definitely warmer than the rest of the flat. Sherlock pondered whether he should really sleep there. Would John mind?

He touched the duvet lightly, fingers tracing invisible patterns. It was soft... like John. He sat on it timidly. With each passing second his throat felt tighter. He lay down, head on John’s pillow. The smell was intoxicating, it was like stuffing his nose in one of John’s jumper. How could it still smell so much like him?

Sherlock let himself relax, body limp, tired. One of his hands reached under the pillow to better adjust his head and he felt something hard under his fingers. He grabbed it and pulled it out. A journal. Strange. John had taken all his belongings with him, Sherlock had already checked every corner of that room. What was a journal doing there, under his pillow? Sherlock opened it tentatively, revealing John’s handwriting right at the first page.

 

_July, 25th_

_Is it possible to fall in love by a single look?  
When I look at him, I almost believe it is. _

 

Sherlock blinked a thousand times.

That was... John’s journal. Poetry? Thoughts? Something... recorded by John, starting the day they met.

He ran the tip of his fingers over each word, savoring them. John thought he was in love with someone. Who? And it was a _he_... Well, he had long deduced John’s sexuality, so there was no surprise in that.

It felt so intimate, this. He was sure John wouldn’t want him to read it and yet, curiosity got the best out of him.

Sherlock touched the second page. He needed more.

 

_August, 12th_

_Sometimes I just want to kiss him and caress his skin and play with his hair.  
I wonder if he tastes the way he smells. _

 

A sharp pang of jealousy made his stomach turn. Who was this man that had caught John’s interest so quickly? Surely it was someone close to them. Sherlock searched his mind palace for a list of John’s closest friends. _But they all hate him!_ he thought.

He then turned to the next page.

 

_September, 9th_

_I just want to hold him in my arms and brush my lips against his cheeks. I want to nuzzle his neck, inhale his sweet scent. God, I love the way he smells! I want to kiss him slowly, lazily... I want him to nest on my chest, to feel my heart beat only for him. I want to kiss the lines of his smile and make them mine. I want to kiss his eyelids and make him dream about me, because I already dream about him. The mysterious man, the consulting detective. Sherlock Holmes, the only one in the world._

 

Sherlock stopped breathing. He was certain he was about to have an aneurysm. What did that mean? Pieces of memory were playing in front of his eyes, his brain too fast for him to follow: John flirting with him that first night at Angelo’s. John killing a man to save him the day they met. John’s jealousy towards Moriarty, then Irene, then Janine. John’s long stares. John’s timid touches. John licking his lips. John hugging him at the wedding. John. John. John.

He went back and read that last entry again and all the previous ones. How could they be about him? Both hands tangled in his hair now, making a mess. He got up from the bed and paced the room. Understanding dawning on him.

John loved him. John had been in love with him since the start.

“Oh...oh, I’ve been so BLIND! Stupid! Idiot!” he shouted to the walls, squeezing his eyes shut.

He needed more data! He grabbed the journal and kept reading.

 

_October, 2nd_

_It always starts with his smile. Is it for me, darling? It always gets in my way and I lose my breath, because he just knows exactly what to do. I ask myself how much longer will it last, but he’s always there with the answers. They don’t give me hope, they just keep lurking me in, making me wish for more questions._

_It always ends with his smile. Is it for her, darling? She always gets in my way and makes me feel like I can’t breathe, because she knows exactly how I feel. I ask myself how much more can I take, but she’s always there with the answers. They don’t give me hope, because she thinks she owns you and I’m starting to believe her._

 

Sherlock wondered if that one was about The Woman. John had always been jealous of her. If only Sherlock could tell him he had no reason to be... God! How he hated not knowing! He turned the page.

 

_December, 30th_

_I stare at the sky, wondering if he’s doing the same. I have so many words, so many rehearsed dialogues and versions of what it could be, but I lack the courage to say them. Whenever he walks into a room, it’s like all the air gets sucked out of my lungs. How am I supposed to say anything when I can’t even breathe?_

 

Sherlock remembered John had been away visiting his sister. Had this one been written there?

He imagined John sitting somewhere where he had a clear view of the sky and thinking of Sherlock, of all people. How much had de missed out on?

He continued reading, feeling more and more disgusted with himself for not paying closer attention to John, to his own feelings.

 

_January, 23nd_

_Why do I feel like an idiot everytime we talk and yet I can’t stop talking, I can’t stop listening to the sound of his voice. Our laughter together. The imaginary hands of our voices touching and intertwined. The lips of our voices kissing slowly, lazily. Our voices. It’s the closer I can get._

 

Sherlock lay on the bed again, belly down. His arms were tired from holding the journal, but he couldn’t bring himself to stop reading it. It was like the words crawled out of the pages and stretched their little fingers until they could reach him. It felt like John was there, whispering them in his ear.

 

_February, 17th_

_It’s early and the daylight carries itself into the house. He’s sitting in the leather sofa, spread like a cat. He’s free and all love strings in the world couldn’t hold him down. He’s holding me by a single string, though. He sighs._

_It’s late and the moonlight is dead. He peels himself in front of me, but it’s not his naked body that I see, it’s his soul. He’s peeled off of that sigh, he’s peeled off of his emotions. I can see him now in the dark, as blind as I am. I see all the stars vanishing from the sky and falling at his feet. I unzip him and that shiny casket falls off. He’s not there anymore, he’s his soul now and he has never looked more beautiful to me._

 

He is so touched by John’s words he can’t breathe. Never would he have guessed John had such a gift. He would write about reality in such a mesmerizing way it felt like a dream.

Sherlock was sure John would tell him this was “a bit not good” and that he was intruding on something very, very personal, but if he couldn’t have John, then he would have at least a part of him.

 

_March, 26th_

_I’ve written so many different stories for us, so many beginnings and first kisses... In some of them, we take on our adventures, running together through danger and mystery. Other times we lay on our backs in the green grass and stare at the sun, lazily, careless. But in all of them I imagine you love me back. I’m not the prince in the fairytale, I’m also not the dragon. Because the fairytale doesn’t exist and you don’t really love me. I just like to pretend that you do._

 

“Oh, but I do John! I do!” he mumbled, broken. How it hurt to know all of this and not be able to say it back.

He read on, pages and pages of beautiful words. Morning light had already invaded John’s room. Sherlock’s head was spinning. How could he have been so loved and not have a clue about it?

The next pages Sherlock was afraid to read. The dates were getting closer and closer to the day he jumped. How did John feel then? He had been extremely angry with Sherlock when he came back, but Sherlock never knew about the days that followed his “death”.

Swallowing hard, he pressed on.

 

_January, 15th_

_I want to die._

_I want to die._

_I want to die._

_Please, God, let me die._

 

Sherlock’s eyes poured into his hands, each word jabbing at him like knives.

He might have broken John for good. That wasn’t fair. He had been broken too. All because of that monster! If Moriarty wasn’t dead he would sure go after him to finish the job himself. Sherlock took a deep breath, resuming his reading.

 

_March, 30th_

_I can’t think about it anymore, because it’s been too little time, too much sadness._

 

It just kept going like that. All that beauty, all that love turned into grief.

 

_June, 8th_

_They told me I shouldn’t think about you anymore, I shouldn’t hope for something that will never come, but whenever I close my eyes it’s you I keep seeing... over and over and over. I close my eyes and their voices fade out and it’s you I keep seeing, my love, and it’s not over. It can’t be over just yet._

 

_August, 24th_

_I’m not thinking about you anymore. At least, that’s what I tell myself at night, right before imagining how good it would feel to have you here. I picture your body, so soft, under mine. I think about our mouths hot and warm against each other. I’m not supposed to do this, I don’t want to anymore. So I keep saying that and pretending I believe it, because it’s all I’ve got left. You pierced your way through my heart. You ruined me._

 

Sherlock put the journal aside. He couldn’t keep reading it anymore. All he wanted was to run to John’s flat and implore his forgiveness. Instead he lay on his back, hands and legs spread on John’s bed.

His body felt so heavy. He wished he could go back in time and spare John, somehow. Maybe he should never have come back. Maybe it would have been best if he’d died in Serbia.

He got up and paced the room. Nothing made sense. After spending two year of his life by John’s side he was unable to recognize the most simple of signs. Maybe because he had been so focused on loving John that he hadn’t had time to stop and analyse John’s feeling regarding him.

Sherlock took the journal with him and went downstairs to the living room. He needed fresh air, he needed to look John in the eye and demand an explanation. But how could he ask anything else from John after all that he put him through? Love was the hardest thing he had ever done.

He opened it again.

 

_September, 5th_

_There’s only one time you can get your eyes opened. There’s only one time you can fall in love. But she looks at me like she can really see me and I just want to let go of all this pain, I want to be taken care of for a change. I can’t keep wishing him alive. He couldn’t give me my miracle, maybe she can make me forget._

 

That had been obviously about Mary.

Sherlock’s hands clenched into fists. That was another thing he could do nothing about.

Back when John found out Mary had shot him, Sherlock even tried easing things up for her, thinking John would want that, would want to keep his wife. Thankfully, John saw her for who she really was and asked for a divorce. They had all agreed not to involve the police, but Sherlock was fearful for John’s life and talked to Lestrade about it. He still keeps tabs on Mary, just for precaution.

Sherlock touched the next page to his lips. This insight on John’s feelings was so... precious. He needed more.

The next date was a bit far on, John didn’t write too many things on Mary. That somehow made Sherlock feel a lot better.

 

_January, 1st_

_He’s alive. I can’t believe he’s alive. I can’t believe I got to see him again and he was just... the same. So charming and funny and clever. My arms ached for him, my heart clenched and unclenched. My lips tingled. I felt numb and too alive all at the same time. How can he still have that effect on me? I thought I’d faint right there. So many times I’d seen him... I know it was all in my head and I was afraid that was a hallucination too, but then Mary saw him._

_God, I was so angry! How could he have left me and then come back as if nothing had happened, as if I hadn’t died with him that day?_

 

Sherlock chuckled sadly, wiping a stranded tear from his cheek.. _He_ was charming? John was the charming one, certainly. And John had... seen him after he “died”? He didn’t know what to make of that, just one more thing to add to his list of “reasons why I hate myself”. He pinched the bridge of his nose. What a roller-coaster of emotions, it felt like his teen years all over again.

 

_January, 12th_

_Some time ago I had this idea that people should be able to chose what they want out of life. I thought we should pick the right person and begin. Or don't pick anyone at all. Just begin. With the right foot. Or the left one, if you prefer. I thought we should know happiness and be able to recognize it. Turns out we're not. I thought we had it in us to foresee the bad influences people might have over us, but we don't. It's funny when I think about it now, because I tried to follow all of those advices and look where they got me. I'm stuck here. I've chosen the person to begin with. I've chosen the right foot. I know what happiness is and I thought I could recognize it. Turns out I can't. I had no idea she could be such a bad influence on my life. Turns out she did._

 

The date was precisely the day Sherlock revealed to John that Mary was an assassin, so a few weeks ago. Well, at least John believed him.

There were only a few written pages left. Sherlock wanted to finish it. He needed to know how John felt after all of that. If he still loved him.

 

_January, 20th_

_He’s the East Wind. Wiping out all chances of coherency, all my attempts at sticking to the ground. He moves me. He changes me._

 

_January, 223rd_

_I can’t quite believe I was given a second chance at this._

 

_January, 30th_

_I don’t know what to think anymore, how my feelings and wishes fit into this life. Everything is so different. I don’t feel like myself and although he looks the same, I don’t think he is the same either. I think he can feel it too, this charged energy between us. My hair stands on end whenever I see him, whenever I hear his voice. It’s all too surreal.. It still feels like one of my nightmares where his jump never happened, but then he slowly disappears. I want to be certain he’s really here. I catch myself looking at the others to make sure they can see him too. It sounds ridiculous... I sound ridiculous. He’d probably laugh at me if he ever read this._

 

Sherlock didn’t dare take his eyes out of those words. They filled him with life, they gave him something to hope for. It seemed like John still felt something for him. He wanted so hard to believe that... Was he reading too much into things? He wanted to tell John how much all of it was real and that he’d never laugh.

 

_February, 7th_

_What if I told you I was still in love with this? With our shadows drowning in light side by side, our words mingling in the foggy night, whispers and sad smiles... What if I told you I’m still thinking about it?_

 

That was the last entry.

Sherlock re-read it five times. Then he read it out loud.

 

“What if I told you I’m still hoping for this?” came the so familiar voice from the door.

 

He froze on the spot. Then turned around really, really slowly.

 

John. He was standing there, two duffel bags by his sides on the floor, wearing his bordeaux cardigan and dark brown trousers with a sad smile adorning his lovely face.

 

Sherlock let a tiny “oh” escape his mouth.

 

“I’m still hoping, Sherlock.” he said softly, licking his lips. “Even after all this time...” he chuckled. “I’m stubborn like that.”

 

Sherlock had never struggled more to find the right words. His mouth was hanging open, he seemed to forget how to speak.

John took two steps towards him. Sherlock started shaking.

 

“Oh, John...” he stammered, his voice breaking.

 

John took another step until he was close enough to reach up and cup Sherlock’s jaw. He circled his thumb over Sherlock’s cheek, wiping away a tiny tear and looked at him like he was heaven and John was a damned man. John’s eyes crinkled at the sides in that adorable way Sherlock had memorised. Oh how he had missed this man!

 

“I’m so sorry I read it John, I didn’t mean to intrude, was just trying to underst-” he was cut off by a pair of the most delicious lips. John kissed him gently at first, tasting him slowly.

 

“Oh Sherlock... You have no idea how many times I’ve wanted to do this...” John whispers.

 

“Actually, now I do.” Sherlock breathes and John uses that opportunity to deepen their kiss. They keep kissing like time means nothing and they’re the only two people in the entire world.

And it doesn’t matter what happened before, they here now, together, finally and Sherlock can’t think of a time he was truly happy before this.

He can’t think of anything, but John.


End file.
